


Room In My Heart (For You)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Implied Mystrade, Moving On, Poor John, Warstan, mary will make it better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach. John meets Mary for the first time, 'moves in' with Greg and Mycroft, and attempts to put his life back together after Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John Watson,” the man said. “Pleasure to meet you.” His eyes were downcast, skin sallow and drawn, his shoulders hunched. It looked anything but a pleasure.

“Mary Morstan,” she replied, offering him a smile, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he returned a genuine smile, albeit a small one.

 

The rest of the day slipped by as seamlessly as it could with John returning to his office in the clinic, and Mary getting to know the staff and patients on the desk. Occasionally, John would check his phone and expect to see a text demanding his immediate presence at some bizarre and farfetched crime scene, and each time he checked, he would experience the same sensation of his stomach flipping and his throat closing up, but at least, at the _very_ least, the flashbacks and nightmares had stopped.

It had been four dreadfully long weeks since Sherlock jumped from St. Bart’s rooftop. Three since the funeral. John had spent the time back at Baker Street, packing his few belongings into boxes and stubbornly avoiding anything and everything that belongs – belonged – to Sherlock. The detective’s bedroom door had remained firmly closed, and in the weeks that John had lived there without him, the good doctor had simply picked his way around the music sheets, science apparatus and mugs that littered the flat in order to pack his own possessions. The only change he had made had been to cover up the smiley on the wall, because how dare anything _smile_? What was there to be happy about?

He had flirted with the idea of calling Harry and asking her if she had a spare sofa he could crash on temporarily, but came to the quick and brutal conclusion that he wouldn’t be able to stand the pitying looks and her failed attempts to act sober. In the end, he’d received a text from Greg Lestrade who had grown sick of seeing his friend wandering around London in favour of returning to 221B, offering the spare bedroom in his and Mycroft’s house to him. John had been hesitant to even breathe under the same roof as Mycroft Holmes, but Greg had assured him that Mycroft was always at work, and when he wasn’t working, he was burrowed away in his study, and that John would have to be mega lucky to bump into him. So John had agreed under the threat of socking Mycroft in the face if he saw him, and Greg had chuckled and neglected to mention that it had been Mycroft’s idea to have John stay with them in the first place.

John had ‘moved in’ to Greg’s house only two days later, and yes, Greg was right. Time with Mycroft in the house was scarce, and when he was home, he spent all his time with Greg in the study or their bedroom. In a strange, roundabout way, John felt bad for the younger man. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to lose a family member, even less could he imagine what it would feel like if it was, technically, your own fault. But he quickly shrugged that feeling off because hell, it was far easier to be pissed off at people than to feel sorry for them, especially when John was fixed on digging a selfish hole and wallowing in his own self-pity until he felt a tiny bit better. Which would, at the rate he was going, take ten years. At the very least.

So, when he got back from the clinic that night, he was surprised to find himself not dragging his heels or blinking away exhaustion, and the surprise he felt was mirrored on Greg’s face, who was coming into the hall from the kitchen.

“Hi,” he greeted, drying his hands on a towel.

“Hello.”

“You’re looking… alright.”

“And you’re covered in flour.”

Greg smiled thinly. Sherlock’s death seemed to have taken its toll on him, too. “Making Mycroft a cake,” he explained.

“Ah. Save us some, yeah?” John headed for the stairs, running a hand through his hair.

“Absolutely. There’s beer in the fridge if you want it.”

John nodded and climbed the stairs. He collapsed onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, feeling not so lost as he had that morning, and it took him a few moments to realise why. _“Mary Morstan,”_ she had replied, and offered him a smile, and while John wasn’t _happy_ and God, he missed Sherlock, he was kind of looking forward to work the next morning. And looking forward to something again felt _good._


	2. Chapter 2

“John? There’s a gentleman here to see you,” Mary said, smiling warmly at him, and John looked up, yawned, and smiled back.

“Cheers, Mary. Send him in?”

She nodded and disappeared behind the door again.

“Oh, Mary?”

She reappeared. “Yes?”

“Grab us a coffee, would you?” he asked, looking up from his computer.

“Where’s the machine?”

“Next to Andy’s office.”

“You know where it is then.”

“Yeah, so—”

“So get it yourself,” she interrupted, grinned, and then disappeared again.

John smiled and shook his head, stretching and getting ready for the next patient of the day.

 

Mary sat back down at her desk and nodded at the gentleman to let him know he could enter the consulting room before turning back to the computer and logging some information. The day was dragging. She felt as though she’d been there for hours already and it wasn’t even lunch time. She sighed, twisting her small silver ring around her finger absently as she listened to the buzz of the semi busy clinic.

“Bit of a fidgeter, aren’t you?” John asked, smiling as he crossed the room to the coffee machine, chuckling as Mary jumped, startled out of her thoughts.

“Christ, John!” Mary exclaimed, collecting herself. “You scared me half to death!”

“Sorry,” John murmured, and held up one of the two coffees he was holding. “Coffee?”

Mary watched him and smiled, nodding. “Please.”

He brought the coffee over to her desk and set it down, awkwardly shuffling his feet when it was done, and frantically searching for a conversation starter that was anything but the _weather._

“You look knackered,” she observed from over the rim of the steaming cup, leaning on her elbows on the desk.

John looked up at her, surprised. “Well, uh—”

“I mean that in the kindest possible way,” she laughed. “Obviously.”

He shrugged. What was there to say? _I’m mourning the death of my best friend?_ Like that would make a good conversation. _I moved in with a friend because I couldn’t stand to live in the flat I used to share with my now dead best friend?_ Or perhaps _I’ve only just stopped having nightmares in which I relive the sight of my best friend jumping to his death._ Fabulous.

In the end, he settled for a generic, “you know the pain and sacrifice of overtime.”

Mary chuckled and sipped her coffee, turning back to her computer. “Yeah, I’ve heard you’re a bit of a workaholic. Jane’s been telling me all about you.”

“All good things, I hope?”

She winked again. “Of course, John. Of course…”

John made a mental note to ask Jane exactly what she had told Mary about him, and turned to see Sherlock walking into the clinic with—No. He did a double take. No, that wasn’t Sherlock. Because Sherlock was dead. The man who had entered the clinic was easily a head smaller than Sherlock was, and his hair was short. It was the coat, John concluded. The long black coat which wasn’t a Belstaff but looked remarkably similar to one, and John decided that long black coats should be made illegal.

Mary followed John’s gaze, concern in her eyes before she shook her head and looked over to the man and smiled. “Can I help you?”

The rest meant nothing to John, and he escaped back into his office before any questions could be asked, and he stayed there until seven thirty, when he could be sure that no one would be hanging around.

***

That night he drank half a bottle of whisky in Greg’s living room, staring at the carpet until his eyes burned. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock Holmes was _dead_ and _buried_ and _not coming back._ If he didn’t get that into his head now, it was likely to drive him insane, and if the whisky was anything to go by, he was half way there.

***

Greg came downstairs at three in the morning, clad in pyjama bottoms and hair sticking up in every direction. “John?” he rumbled, voice gravelly and slightly slow. He switched the light on and finally, regrettably let go of the last strings of sleep he’d been holding on to, to cross the room and crouch in front of the doctor. “John… Come on, mate. You need to be in bed. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“I thought I saw ‘im,” John slurred, trying to focus on the DI. “At the clinic there’s a pretty lady.”

“Alright,” Greg murmured, wrapping his arms around John to help him up. “Come on.”

“I think he’d like her,” the doctor mumbled, head lolling as he stood up, leaning heavily on his friend. “I saw him.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Yeah. But it wasn’t him. I just thought it was but it wasn’t it was a different hair.”

“Different hair? He had pretty unusual hair, didn’t he?” Greg half dragged John to the stairs. “Come on, I’m gonna need you to work with me on this one, John.”

John started up the stairs, groaning. “Do you see ‘im Greg?”

“Sometimes,” Greg lied, helping the doctor regain his balance. “Christ, how much did you drink?”

“I dunno…”

They finally got to the top of the stairs and Greg lead John to the spare room he was staying in, smiling thinly at Mycroft who had gotten out of bed to stand in their doorway with sleepy eyes. “Everything okay, Gregory?”

Greg nodded and got John into his room, giving him a small push to the bed. “Get changed and call me when you’re done, alright?”

John nodded and pulled his shirt clumsily over his head and Greg backed out of the room, yawning and waiting for his call.

“M’kay, I’m done,” John slurred, sitting on the edge of his bed in pyjamas, eyes closed. Greg entered and helped John into bed, making sure his head was propped up enough.

“See you in the morning, John, okay?”

“M’kay,” he whispered, already half asleep.

Greg sighed and left the room, leaving the door ajar and going back into his room with Mycroft, collapsing onto the bed tiredly and curling around the younger man.

“You’re very good to him,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg grunted and shrugged. “He just needs a friend,” he murmured, yawning. “I just hope he’ll snap out of it soon… He can’t keep doing this to himself. It’ll destroy him, one way or another.”

Mycroft hummed, closing his eyes. “I believe he’ll be fine.”

There was silence for a minute, before Greg shifted to be closer to Mycroft and whispered, “I hope so. I really, really hope so.”


	3. Chapter 3

“John?” Greg knocked on the bedroom door, holding one cup of black coffee and a box of painkillers. “You up?”

John groaned and sat up, rubbing his head. He felt like a teenager again, waking up with a splitting headache and hazy memories at best. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m up,” he muttered, clearing his throat and wincing as Greg walked in.

“Here. Coffee and drugs – Just what the doctor ordered, hm?”

“Cheers,” John murmured, taking the pills first and dry swallowing two of them, before taking the coffee and sipping it gratefully. “Do I even want to know?”

Greg smiled and moved to open the curtains, chuckling as John recoiled, squinting. “Well… you polished off almost an entire bottle of Jack Daniels. So probably not.”

“Shit… Sorry. I guess you got me up here?”

Greg shrugged. “You’re just lucky you have a late start today. I’d advise a shower.”

John looked down at his lap, nodding as he took another sip of the coffee. Strong, black, bitter. Greg turned to watch him, eyes soft.

“Listen, mate… if you ever need to talk about any of this… you know, I’d rather you talk to me than drink yourself into oblivion every time you have a bad day…”

John nodded, refusing to look up and meet his friend’s eyes. “I know. I just got carried away last night and I… One drink leads to another, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It does. But I’m always here, and so’s Mycroft…”

John snorted. “Don’t feed me that bullshit, Greg. If it weren’t for Mycroft, I wouldn’t be in this mess and Sherlock—well, Sherlock’d be okay, wouldn’t he?”

“How long are you going to blame this on Mycroft for?” Greg asked softly, shaking his head. “He didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Surely you understand that.”

John ran a hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s easy to cope with if there’s someone to blame,” he muttered. “And besides, it _is_ Mycroft’s fault.”

Greg shook his head. “Well, we’re both here for you if  you need us,” he said, leaving John to lie back on the pillows and feel extremely guilty, and guilt was the last thing he needed to be coupled with a raging hangover. If he wasn’t feeling so fragile he’d probably have thrown something, and if he had anything better to do with his day he’d probably have called in sick. But five minutes later he was crawling out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom, stomach churning, and showering with sluggish movements as he went through the mindless ritual required for getting ready for work.

 

***

 

“So tell me,” Mary said, grinning at him from across the room. “And be honest. Are you, or are you not a raging alcoholic and drug addict, or are you a superhero?”

John blinked at her, mind too slow and drowning in last night’s alcohol to comprehend what she was asking of him.

“Because every day I’ve seen you so far, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

And just like that, John’s eyes filled with tears. A combination of insomnia, stress, guilt, grief, alcohol, and a friendly co-worker had succeeded in bringing him to his knees and desperate to talk about his feelings.

Mary looked a little alarmed, as though she hadn’t been expecting _that_ and of course, she hadn’t been, but she moved around her desk and crossed the room to sit next to John, gazing at him in concern. “John?” she asked softly, resting her hand on his arm as he hid his face in his hands and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

She encouraged him to his feet and led him into his office where they could talk in private and shut the door behind them, frowning. “John, what’s the matter?”

It took him all of fifteen minutes to pull himself together enough to tell her all about Sherlock, about how they met, their friendship, and his suicide. During the time, she sat perfectly still, hands clasped in her lap as she nodded along to his story in silence, letting him get it out.

When he had finished, she contemplated the new information before looking up at him and smiling. “Let’s go get coffee,” she said. “There’s a lovely new shop down the road that just recently opened. They do the best hot chocolates.”

John returned her smile somewhat weakly, thanking all of the deities he did not believe in for the woman sitting opposite him. He didn’t want to be questioned, and she seemed to recognise that. He had just needed to tell someone who didn’t have all of the prior knowledge. He had needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge or interrogate him.

“Hot chocolate sounds incredible,” he said softly, clearing his throat, and Mary positively beamed, standing up.

“We’ve got an hour’s break, haven’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect!” She took his hand and tugged him from the building; a boundless bundle of energy, it seemed, and she showed him the way to the coffee shop, chattering happily about nothing in particular as they walked in the cool autumn air.


	4. Chapter 4

The shop was busy enough to offer a friendly hum of conversation, and the two of them were lead to a table for two near the back. They both placed their orders (Mary, a honeycomb hot chocolate, and John, a pumpkin latte).

“See,” Mary said, grinning. “ _This_ is why I love wintery seasons.”

John looked blank.

“The wintery drinks. They’re the best, but they’re only served from October ‘til they run out of syrups after Christmas.”

John nodded his understanding and smiled, clearing his throat. “Sorry for earlier. I don’t normally—well, I don’t—”

She held up a hand to stop him talking and shrugged. “Look, John, you don’t have to explain or justify yourself. You’re human, aren’t you? Humans have emotions. I’m not judging you.”

He floundered for something to say, thanking the waiter gratefully as they were interrupted by their drinks being slid in front of them. Mary instantly wrapped her hands around the cup and cradled it carefully, inhaling the comforting scent and waiting for John to speak.

“What made you decide to work at the clinic then?” he finally asked.

“I trained as a nurse and the clinic had an opening.”

“An opening as a receptionist, not a nurse.”

Mary smiled. “I figured that working there as a receptionist would kind of get my foot in the door, you know? So if anyone left or took sick leave or went on holiday, there’d be someone – me – to step in and save the day.”

“So _you’re_ the superhero, then, not me,” John laughed, somewhat pleased to see a blush stain Mary’s cheeks prettily and her gaze lower to her drink.

“Nah, I’m nothing special,” she countered, grinning.

John took a thoughtful sip of his drink, regarding her carefully. She wasn’t extraordinarily pretty, but there was something about her that seemed to stand out and draw John in. Something that intrigued him. She wasn’t girly or giggly like Sarah had been, nor was she pretentious and closed off as Janine had been. There was just something he couldn’t define, and it made him want to spend more time with her – a feeling he hadn’t had since he met Sherlock – to try and work her out – a trait he had undoubtedly inherited from Sherlock.

Mary blushed again under John’s gaze and busied herself by sipping her drink, looking up at him shyly.

“Well, there’s something about you, whichever way you look at it,” John murmured. “You’re right, these drinks are pretty incredible. They’re making me feel better, anyway.”

“You sure that’s not just my company?” Mary teased, and John grinned.

“You’re probably right,” he said, drinking his drink.

Mary pushed her hot chocolate over to John. “Taste it,” she said, smiling. John did as she asked and sipped it, closing his eyes in an exaggerated display of appreciation.

“It’s good,” he informed her, and was relieved that his smile was genuine, despite his still very present hangover and his burning eyes from the previous onslaught of emotion.

 

They both finished their drinks and Mary pulled on her scarf and coat, and John pulled his jacket on. They exchanged phone numbers and walked back to the clinic in companionable silence, and John hadn’t felt that comfortable with anyone who wasn’t Sherlock in a long while. The rest of the day slipped by without much event, though both John and Mary smiled their entire way through, despite hangovers and tiredness, and by the time he got back to Greg’s house, John was _almost_ ready to even talk to Mycroft. But not quite.

 

Greg made them both pizza and Mycroft was working late, so they spent the night avoiding any kind of alcohol, watching shit cop shows on the tv that were interrupted periodically by Greg brandishing a slice of pizza or a can of cola and yelling abuse: “Oh for Christ sake! It’s _never_ done like that!” and John just smiled and tittered occasionally, curled up in the armchair in the corner, his thoughts alternating between Sherlock and Mary accordingly.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” he announced at half eleven, smiling and standing up.

Greg nodded, curling up tighter. “Alright.”

“Don’t stay up too late, mate.”

He shrugged. “I’ll wait up for Mycroft, and then we’ll crash.”

John smiled. “Alright. See you tomorrow night – I’ve got an early start at the clinic.”


	5. Chapter 5

**18:22:** _Are you busy tomorrow? JW_

**18:23:** _Tomorrow? No, I don’t think so. MM_

**18:35:** _Do you fancy grabbing a coffee? JW_

**18:37:** _Absolutely. MM_

**18:38:** _Great. Meet you there at 12? JW_

**18:38:** _Sounds good. See you there. MM_

Mary put her phone down and smiled at the white cat on her lap, hugging him close to her chest. “I think,” she murmured, picking her tatty copy of _Alice In Wonderland_ back up. “I may have a date.” The cat mewled and snuggled closer to her chest, purring in contentment, and Mary lost herself in the book again, a little happier than before.

 

“What’re you smiling about?” Greg asked through a yawn as he and John prepared dinner.

“Nothing,” John shrugged. “You’re knackered. Do you wait up for him every night?”

“Yeah. It’s weird, I know, but I don’t like being in bed without him.”

John considered what Greg had said for a second, before shrugging again. “You guys have been together for what, two years now?”

“Two years, four months, yes.”

The doctor whistled. “Pretty impressive. And you haven’t popped the question yet?”

“Not so soon after Sherlock, but we had talked about it previously,” Greg murmured, and John experienced another sharp stab of guilt, pity and anger towards the politician.

“I guess…” he cleared his throat. “I guess it’s affected him pretty badly, huh?”

Greg offered him a strained smile. “He’s not as emotionless as everyone thinks he is. Of course it’s affected him. Sherlock was his baby brother.”

John flushed and nodded. “I didn’t—that’s not what I meant. Obviously I know, I just don’t get why he’d sell Sherlock out.”

“Mycroft did what Mycroft thought was best. Moriarty was killing people, John, so some background info on Sherlock was a small price to pay for the security of innocent lives. How was he to know what Moriarty would use the information for? He’s powerful, but he can’t change people’s opinions. No one can.”

John busied himself with putting the chicken they had seasoned into the oven, avoiding Greg’s gaze. “I understand,” he finally said softly.

Greg nodded and put the kettle on and a heavy, loaded silence descended, until John sighed. “I’m going for coffee tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“With whom?”

“Her name’s Mary Morstan. She works at the clinic.”

Greg looked up from the tea he was pouring and blinked at John. “That’s great!” he exclaimed, grinning. “I thought you seemed happier!”

“Not like a date or anything,” John said. “Just… getting to know each other.”

Greg chuckled knowingly. “Right…” he said, winking. “We’ve all heard _that_ one before.”

“No, I’m being serious!” he insisted, though the grin on his face said otherwise.

“Well, whatever you’re going to coffee for, it’s good to see you smiling again. It’s about time you were happy again.”

“Don’t push it,” John warned, picking up a cup of tea and smiling. “Just friends.”

“Just friends for how long?” Greg asked, leaning against the counter and sipping his tea.

John rolled his eyes and opted to ignore his friend, shaking his head.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Were you… were you in love with Sherlock?” The words tumbled from his lips as though he had been containing them for a long time.

John sighed. “No. He was my… my best friend. He changed my life, he did mean a lot to me, just as your friends mean a lot to you. _And_ I’m not gay.”

“Just checking. You know there’s been a lot of speculation and theories flying around about you two.”

“Speculation and theories, yes. And when denied, the spectators and theorists insist on maintaining their theories.”

Greg chuckled. “I’m going to be doing a James Bond marathon tonight because Myc’s not going to be home until stupid o’clock again, and I stocked up on beer, if you’d like to join me.”

“That sounds wonderful,” John said. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“Great. And while we’re waiting for the food to cook, you can tell me more about your coffee date.”

John just rolled his eyes and laughed, and gave Greg the run down on Mary’s appearance and personality.

 

Mary finished _Alice_ and stood up, stretching and putting the book back on the bookcase that was practically heaving. “Time for bed,” she announced to the empty room, yawning and moving out of the small living room and into her bedroom, getting changed into her pyjamas and collapsing onto her bed, hugging her pillow and smiling as her cat jumped up and curled up beside her. She felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, unable to quell the butterflies that were fluttering around in her tummy, and unable to keep the silly grin from her face. It was only coffee, and they’d been for coffee before, but this time it felt different. Perhaps because it had been _arranged_ , perhaps it was because John had asked, but there was definitely something about it that was making her ridiculously excited for Saturday, midday. She switched the lamp off and curled up. “Pull yourself together, girl,” she whispered, a huge smile on her face as she fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you guys think of this :)


	6. Chapter 6

Mary arrived at the coffee shop 11:50 ( _because better early than even a minute late)_ and looked over to the table in the corner to see it was already occupied. She sighed and turned to look for another table only to whip back around when the man sitting in the corner waved. Looking closer, she smiled and made her way over to John, who pocketed his phone and smiled, glad to see her.

“You’re early,” she remarked, sitting down and taking her scarf off, placing it under her chair.

John shrugged. “So’re you,” he pointed out.

“Yeah but you’re earliest,” Mary teased, smiling. “How long have you been here?”

“Well actually, right after I texted you last night I sprinted here.”

“Ohhh I see… And you’ve been here since?”

“Exactly.”

They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds before laughing, and it felt absolutely wonderful for John to be not just _laughing_ but genuinely _happy._

“So how are you?” he asked once they had calmed a little, and Mary looked at him and saw how he seemed to hold himself differently. He wasn’t hunched and withdrawn, rather it seemed like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders and his eyes were a little softer.

“I’m okay, thanks,” she said softly, turning her gaze to at the colourless scene just outside the warm coffee shop. The trees were bare, the skies grey and heavy looking, hanging low over London as though they couldn’t decide whether to go up or down, and the wind blew a few stray red leaves down the road. “It’s bloody cold though.”

“It is, isn’t it?” John asked, signalling to a waiter so they could order. “But I like it like this, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Not too hot, not too cold. And when it’s cold, it’s always easier to warm up rather than trying to cool down in summer, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” she agreed, smiling up at the waiter and they both ordered a honeycomb hot chocolate each, falling into comfortable silence after the waiter left.

John’s phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket, nodding at it and putting it back again, smiling apologetically at the woman across from him.

“My friend’s going out with his partner for dinner tonight. He was just letting me know I’d have to cook myself something.”

Mary chuckled. “That’s… Greg, isn’t it?” she asked, recalling the names from John’s story the other day. Greg was the friend who had offered their house to John, she was sure.

“Yeah,” John said, looking surprised but pleased she had remembered. “Yeah. He and Mycroft are going out.”

“Oh how will you ever survive?” she teased, and John rolled his eyes.

“I’m not completely useless, you know.”

“No?”

“No!”

Mary laughed and winked. “Alright, alright… I’ll believe you.”

John shook his head, chuckling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Touché…”

Their drinks appeared in front of them and they thanked the waiter, smiling at each other and stirring their drinks slowly.

“Have you got much planned today?” John asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I was just going to get some reading done, really,” she said, cradling her drink in her hands and looking up at John. “You?”

“Nothing at all. I hate days off.”

“Definitely a workaholic,” Mary mused, gently blowing her hot chocolate.

John looked indignant. “It’s just that there’s nothing to do. Nothing happens to me.”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “There’s everything to do!” she said. “Think of all the books you haven’t read. All the places you’ve never been – in London alone. I bet you’ve never been on the London Eye.”

He actually had never been on the London Eye. Nor had he ever been to the Tower, and the only time he had been to Buckingham Palace had been on a case. He’d made a point not to visit any tourist attractions, out of principle. And it had been something that he had been almost proud of.

“See!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Mr There’s-Nothing-To-Do! You live in one of the best cities in the entire world! Make use of it.”

John pulled a face and sipped his drink. “What’s interesting about the London Eye?”

“You’ve never been, so you can’t say it’s _not_ interesting!” Mary insisted, grinning at him.

 

An hour later, they were wrapped up in coats and scarves and sitting at the top of the London Eye, and John had to admit it was nothing short of breath taking. He had no idea that there was even life outside the streets he frequented, and he looked around with something akin to awe.

Mary had never been one to say ‘I told you so’, but watching John become so enthralled with something he had previously dismissed made her want to laugh and do anything she had to, to keep that expression on his face.

He turned back to her, smiling, and instead of thanking her, or beating around the bush, he asked, “so, pets?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you have any pets?”

“I have a cat.”

“Siblings?”

She shook her head, smiling. “You?”

“A sister. Hm. Favourite book?”

“ _Alice in Wonderland.”_

“Political views?”

“Lib dem.”

“Subject you feel most strongly about?”

“Feminism.”

He nodded. “Good choice. Um… Dream job?”

“Nurse.”

“For always?”

“Since I can remember.”

There was silence, and Mary watched him carefully. “Your dream job?”

John thought about it. “I’ve never really had a specific one. I always wanted to be a doctor, and so far I’ve had two variations of that.”

“Two?”

“Yeah. I was an army doctor, in Afghanistan.”

“Oh!” her eyes searched his face slowly, and upon detecting no shadow of distress, she smiled. “Always liked a man in uniform,” she teased.

John rolled his eyes but smiled. “Like I haven’t heard _that_ one before.” He prepared himself for the onslaught of questions – ‘do you still have the dog tags?’ ‘do you still have the uniform?’ ‘did you kill people?’ – but they never came. Mary seemed content with that information and was looking out of the window as they neared the ground again, a small smile on her face.

John decided then that he liked her. “You’ve got nothing on today, no?”

Mary shook her head. “Free as a bird.”

“Let’s get dinner.”

She looked surprised.

John winked and stood up, getting ready to get off. “I can’t be bothered to cook for myself.”


End file.
